


No One Will See

by Khemi



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Bruises, Closet Sex, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Insults, Internal Monologue, Love Confessions, Prom gone wrong, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/pseuds/Khemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you in love, Dave?"</p>
<p>"Maybe."</p>
<p>It's all he has to say. His fingers tighten into the fabric of your dress, and your hand slips around his tie fully, tightening to hold it like a leash.</p>
<p>It's entirely inappropriate - depraved, some might say - to enjoy that allusion.</p>
<p>You do so nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Will See

**Author's Note:**

> I began this fic a while ago for a friend who I've sadly since parted with, but I liked it enough that I wanted to finish it. Dersecest is not my cup of tea, but I did really enjoy writing this, and am very fond of how it came out- It actually got me back into writing, and that's something I'm very happy about.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, but be warned, as the tags suggest this is not a particularly light take on the ship.

Unlike the vapid high-school cliche you could easily allow yourself to become, you know precisely where tonight went horribly wrong.

It involves the propensity of your college to wallow in far too little acceptance, far too few decent students, and far too many Vriska Serkets.

Well, you at least hope wherever Kanaya has been swept off to she is having a better time that you are, sat here in a closet with your only companions being the bottom of a glass of stolen gin and the mop beside you that is looking more and more like an acceptable conversational partner with every passing second. Mother would be proud of her little Rosey, crashing and burning like a normal girl, turning to the solace of an alcoholic shoulder on which to rest her tear-stained, blotchy head.

Ugh, you are being far too harsh on her. Your mother tries her best, despite her love of fine wine and fine men, neither of which she can recall the names of. She does all she can for you, and you are no longer so childish that you resent her in her efforts.

Well, not usually. Tonight _is_ a night to be childish, after all, if you follow the example of the bitch who stole your date away with an immature, implied shriek of _mine!_

You had such high hopes for this evening.

A few more are drowned away with the burn of gin down your throat.

Hopefully reasonably soon you will have sent them all to a watery grave, and will be free to revel in the comparative bliss of inebriation as you call Serket a whore to a friendly looking mop.

Hm. You think you will name it Viceroy.

It doesn't take many more sips of your ill-gotten beverage before you are leaning against him - definitely him - with an arm around his... His... Well it certainly isn't a shoulder but you can't exactly call it a stump. Whatever it is, you are clinging to it, moaning quietly as his damp tassels wetly mix with your hair and smear it with god knows how many cleaning chemicals.

Frankly, you couldn't give a damn.

"And... And I should've _known_ this was coming, Viceroy, she _always_ talks about her! Oh, _Vriska this_ and _Vriska that_... I thought she'd put it behind her, but all it took was that... that walking pile of ass and bulbous breasts - have you _seen_ them? They're like the foam cleft of one of father's smuppets has been glued haphazardly to her chest! It only took _her_ fluttering her obnoxious blue lashes and _oh, Vriska!_ There she went, Viceroy, dragging my dreams and hopes behind her."

You sigh, a deep sigh that heaves your noticeably less impressive bosom, which you absently paw at around him, tugging his wooden body closer to your side.

"I know it's only one night, but still! She showed where her true interests lie. They lie in the gaping maw between a certain slut's perpetually open legs!" You scissor your fingers at roughly where you think his face is, although your opinion on the matter is changing every few seconds. "I try so _hard_ , but it will never be enough. Not until I go and have my body modified by a hack with a license to fit me with organs lovingly donated by a blow-up doll. Brains before beauty, they say, but they lack to mention both are trumped by bitches who have big tits and nothing but cobwebs and malice between their stupid pierced ears!"

Viceroy clearly agrees with you, in his own, silent way. He _understands,_ and not simply because he is a construct of your own alcohol muddled imagination. No! Even a broom knows how awful Serket is, yet the woman of your dreams apparently does not! It's a sorry state of affairs, but one you should have predicted. Heaven forbid anything you put effort into ever turn into anything but a mess.

"You know what, Viceroy? I think dating is some great conspiracy to cause pain. There's no worth to it, none at all! You pay money to get laid and cuddled and I could get just as much from an affectionate prostitute. I bet _she_ wouldn't ditch me for Vriska! I'm through with dating. I'm done. I shall adopt father's methods of creating partners that will never leave me, and teach every knitted lover that abandoning me will result in my needle-based wrath!"

"Can you make me one while you're at it, if you're gonna go the full fuckin' crazy lady route?"

You stare at Viceroy, quite amazed by his sudden ability to speak, and in the voice of your brother no less, before the door you had failed to hear open closes more audibly, and you look around to find the actual owner of that drawl slouched over like he's carrying the weight of all the world on his perfectly-tailored suit's shoulders.

"Dave," you utter dumbly, and even through his ridiculous eyewear you see his eyebrows twitch.

" _Rose_. Are we gonna do the Tarzan shit for real? Are you that drunk? Come on, man, I haven't even started yet. Don't pass out before we both reach the weepy stage and drown ourselves in tears and humiliatin' confessions we'll later make blood oaths to never repeat."

Viceroy is released from your grasp as you turn fully to face your brother, who eases out an upturned bucket with his foot and then slumps onto it. A bottle of whiskey is retrieved from his jacket, and he has the manners to fill your now empty glass before he swigs from the neck itself in a practised motion he no doubt picked up from mother, given your father detests drink to the point your parents are constantly in a passive aggressive state of war over whether or not it's allowed in the house. You sip your new drink and revel in the heady burn, already beyond caring about things as trivial as what your parents will think when they collect you later.

Tonight is a night of bad decisions and upset. How could you deny them the opportunity to enjoy both along with you?

"I thought you were with Terezi," you offer at last, when your brain finally drags together the information required to do so.

"Yeah, I was," he mumbles, staring at the bottle like it's the most interesting thing on earth, "'til she dumped my ass."

"Oh." Hm. You're not entirely surprised by this revelation, given the signs have been there for a while for anyone who actually paid attention, but you _are_ surprised by her insensitive choice of timing. "I'm sorry, Dave."

"Nah, you're not. We both know you thought we were incompatible, you mentioned it in your psycho babble often enough."

"Well yes, I admit that. I'm sorry it was tonight. You didn't deserve that." He _does_ deserve better than Terezi, however. At least he is now able to explore the other fruits of the garden, you suppose. "I'm surprised you're not with John."

"He's fuck knows where. Moment we arrived Karkat swooped in from the heavens like the shittiest angel you ever saw, full of curses and rage and this weird angry mumblin' I think was him asking John out. Ain't laid eyes on them since. Probably attemptin' to fuck in a bush somewhere, treatin' each other's dicks like they're about to turn into a tentacle."

It says a lot about how tipsy you are that you giggle at that, but it makes his lips twitch into a pleasing smile, until he wrinkles up his brow. "Where's Kanaya?"

"Vriska," you answer curtly.

"Bitch."

No more is said on the topic, but the silent moment you share is enough to contain all the hatred you both feel for that walking pile of human excrement. You are not the hateful sort, but Vriska transcends all common sensibilities, moving into a realm of loathing reserved especially for her.

"Well ain't this a way to spend the night." Dave idly twists the bottle to and fro in his hands, not meeting your gaze. "Two fuckups in a closet so ironically appropriate it hurts, drinkin' stolen shit and feelin' sorry for themselves."

"It seems fitting. We were hardly ever going to get through this like normal people, were we?"

He chuckles and sips, finally looking at you with a wry smile. You return it, soothed by his presence, and the somewhat selfish notion that at least tonight's misery isn't yours to bear alone. Oddly, however, you are beginning to miss the wooden, tactile comfort the Viceroy offered, and the realisation makes you shuffle closer to Dave, who gives you a look and tenses up at the approach, too used to years of smuppet traps and sudden strifes to allow any kind of calm encroachment into his personal space.

You give him a moment to settle down and accept the motion, then ease in further, until he understands your intention and opens one arm to you. Without further hesitation, you are upon him, curling into his chest with your head against his shoulder, revelling in all the warmth and stability his form gives you.

"She'll be back tomorrow," he murmurs softly, pressing his nose into what little patch of your hair remains that isn't full of soap and chemicals. Of course she will be, you know that, and she will be sorry and you will lash out with a tongue sharpened by hangover and upset, until you both make up and have the kind of passionate sex reserved only for the worst of days. You _know_ that. It doesn't make tonight any better.

"Tonight should have been happy, Dave," you answer, voice trembling more than you want it to. "This was meant to be happy. For both of us. We were with the girls we love and- and-"

"And they fucked us over."

Silence falls again, and in the quiet you can hear the beat of his heart beneath your ear, the sound of his quiet breaths puffing out amongst your curls. His lips touch your scalp and it's probably the drink that makes you perceive it in a way you most certainly shouldn't, although you can't pretend it's the drink that makes you enjoy it.

"I don't love her, though," Dave admits in a voice muffled into your hair. You tense at that, unsure of quite why, and he lifts his mouth to take another deep gulp of whiskey. "I like her, yeah. Ain't gonna _love_ that fast."

You blame your inebriation for the way your fingers skitter up his suit and start to trace patterns in the thread of his tie. Tonight is a night of bad decisions, and a crawling sensation up your neck whispers that you are about to make an unforgivable one.

"Are you in love, Dave?"

"Maybe."

It's all he has to say. His fingers tighten into the fabric of your dress, and your hand slips around his tie fully, tightening to hold it like a leash.

It's entirely inappropriate - _depraved_ , some might say - to enjoy that allusion.

You do so nonetheless.

When your gaze rises to his face, he's looking back down at you, eyes wary and wanting in a way you've never seen before; at least, a way you've never admitted to yourself you've seen, although the more you think about it the more you suspect it's been there all along. You pride yourself in your psychoanalytical skills, and it is very rare something actually passes you by.

No, it is far more likely you see it, and simply refuse to acknowledge what it means.

A Pandora's box of lingering stares and touches is opened, the key found simply in that possessive grasp at the velvet on your back. You should refuse it, close it again, but the spectres that have fled from it into the air between you will never again be kept so easily within a gilded prison.

The snake proffers the apple, and with a sigh you press your lips to it, and taste all of its forbidden sweetness.

Dave barely shifts, when you kiss him. He trembles, but it takes only a moment for him to control it, and return your embrace with a vicious need that speaks of how long he's waited for it. Your gentle touch is pushed aside in favour of teeth to your lip and his tongue demandingly beckoning yours, and in the heat of the flames that have sprung up to turn your heart into an inferno of things you are not allowed, you find they are made all the more wanted by the bindings of taboo.

You have never been a good girl.

You have certainly never done as you were told.

Allowing your brother to part your lips and kiss you in a way that you doubt even a blind fool would call _familial_ is certainly a new extreme, however.

Dave's hand unlocks from your dress, fingers slipping down your spine and then grasping your side with no gentleness in the touch. A better person might be wary of such roughness, but you demand more of him with your teeth digging sharp into his lip, demand that if you are to ruin each other, you will both ensure to not leave the job half done. His grip turns biting, nails sharp even through the fabric; you make sure to moan your appreciation.

The sound is no doubt the first of many, but when its breaks the silence you both falter, considering your positions and the fact that you are teetering upon the edge of a cliff. Below, waves crash wildly, promising to break you upon the rocks of your own desires and the risks that come with them. Here, there is a safety, a respite- you can stop now, part mouths and touch, and recede back to the oblivious stability of before. Denying the memories and what they have unleashed would be terribly easy. You are your mother’s children, after all.

“ _Rose_ ,” Dave whispers, the syllable formed against your flushed lips. It is a promise you can end this, a weak surrender of the power to decide to you, the sister he has always thought more capable. Perhaps he is hoping you will stop him, preserve the aura of innocence he has foolishly chosen to bathe you in. That you will be the one to save you both from that tempest below you, and place back on the masks of normality that others expect.

You are far from innocent. He has too much faith in you.

The moaned sound of his name binds around him, sets his eyes ablaze with lust, and together you tumble, the fierce sea of desire rushing up to meet you when his hands become vices and his lips steal your breath. You cannot think, cannot gasp out, other than into his mouth and into his wants. Dave does not give you another chance to free yourself from all the chains that are tangling about you.

His body is an altar, his lips the sacrificial chalice, and you fill it to the brim with muffled cries and the blood of your purity when he hitches up your dress and sears palm-prints into your thighs. Closer, higher, please- The spark and burn between your legs is harsh, and each rub of the silk lingerie meant to please another makes you pulse like a heart-beat, the fabric stuck and darkened through slickness others would find disgusting.

Your brother pulls back just far enough to look down as your pliant legs spread for him, then roughly bites your throat in punishment for being so wicked that you clearly invite his sinful touch. The pain is cathartic, deserved; it is a bite of sour balance when his hand takes up the offer and presses the silk into your folds.

A rapturous moan escapes you, his first touch exhilarating and terrible. You know in the moment that he drags over the fabric to tease at your tensing nub that no other will ever give you the same, dark thrill that he can. These fingers, they know this place. This tongue, it shares the blood it tastes on your neck. And oh, that sweet voice that pants harsh admonishments of what a twisted mess you are, it shares the guilt and shame that make this all the more delicious.

His fingers lift, wet and connected by threads that catch what little light there is, his breath hitching as the connection breaks.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he murmurs, a threat and a promise that has your flesh throbbing for him. You scrape your nails down his neck, leaving behind red lines that remind you of his eyes.

“We’re going to ruin _everything_ ,” you tell him, licking the metallic taste of him from the tips of your recent manicure.

“You can always stop.”

It’s sweet, and you laugh, because as he speaks the words his hands are forcing your dress up higher, and your fingers are sliding down his suit to cup the tense tent in his pants. Your rest one finger to the tip of it, and rub, feeling him jolt up towards you. Far too easily, you slip your mouth to his ear, feeling the heat of your own breath washing back from it as you whisper.

“I’ve been so bad, Dave. I’ve been a liar, telling myself I didn’t want you, that you didn’t want me.” You slip his button undone and ease the zip down, his length heavy in your hands as you curl both around it and start to slide your palms up and down, up and down- an easy rhythm over skin that always belonged beneath your tangled fingers. “I want this. I want my brother to give it to me, and I want him to take everything I can offer in return.”

“You’re _sick_ ,” he growls roughly, a hand grabbing your hair and pulling your head back painfully, exposing your throat, still burning from the marks he already left there. Dave slicks his lips to add another, your back arching up towards him as you think of all the other places he could leave matching bruises. “What the fuck am I gonna do with a slut like you?”

The words consume you, your hips raising in need.

“What I deserve,” you plead at last, and as his will snaps, Dave is over you, on his feet, your hands now cradling his flushed dick in the air before your face. He yanks your hair, and you cry out in pleasure and discomfort, eyes stinging when he bumps his flushed crown demanding against your lips.

“Open up.” You do, gagging softly when he drags your head down the full length of him. Your hands have fallen limp, twitching as they hang, eyes rolling back when you struggle to breathe. You deserve this. All of this. To be broken and torn apart and taught what a filthy, terrible sister you are. When he pulls your head back you choke and gulp down breaths, shuddering at his pleased sigh.

“Finally found somethin’ to shut you up.” Dave pushes you back onto him, and you press your tongue up to him, starting to rolling your head against the invasion. “Better do it good if you want me to fuck that sick cunt.”

His choice of words is abhorrent, and you love it. You whine and attempt to suck, to give him the friction and heat he must be seeking, every snap and shock of pain filling your blood with fire.

You deserve this. You’re a twisted, disgusting creature. Your brother’s shaft in your mouth is making you spasm and wet your thighs with the needy flow of your parting sex, and the folds bloom into a hole that needs using, abusing, by the only one you ever want to see you like this.

“Rosey,” he coos, and he sounds just like your father, a thought that has you moaning around a vision of them both tearing your dress to shreds. “Tell me how much you want me.”

Your burning lungs demand you choke down air before you can speak, his shaft in his own hand once it pulls free from your lips with a smack. You catch the drool you can with your tongue, panting and red-faced, a mess who can barely mewl when his fingers cup your face and tip it up towards him.

“Dave.” Hoarse pleading finally comes within reach. “Oh God, I need you. All my body wants is you. I’m a freak; punish me. Break me.”

He forces your legs back, bending you double as your back cracks into the wall, Viceroy tumbling to the ground at the impact. You give a sob of ecstasy when Dave’s heat ruts along your panties, turned black by the moisture that has filled them, and his breaths grow hissed and short. Oh, more. More, now, please, _Dave-_

Though you can’t voice it, he understands, fingers curling into your underwear and pulling it to one side. The act is graceless, will no doubt be uncomfortable, but this moment is raw and twisted and leaves no room for the niceties less depraved people enjoy. You are two stars, burning out in the instant before you implode; soon nothing will be left but a memory and dust, but oh how beautiful the disaster will have been.

It starts with pressure and ends with sweet release, your body giving way beneath him and welcoming his heat inside you. There’s a pinch, a gasp of pain, his invasive thrust far thicker than your experiments have reached. The hurt is grounding. You reach up and cling to his tie, choking him when he pulls his hips back and jerks roughly into your flesh.

There is nothing loving about this. No soft words or gentle touches; you have no glossy movie moment. Just something dirty, quick, urgent. A carnal act in a closet where between your mingling, alcohol-stained breaths and the underwear clinging to your sweaty thighs, nothing is how you imagined it might be.

You never deserved the dream, however. This is reality, and it is just as bleak and broken as you.

The motion is repetitive. There is an itch to be scratched within both of you, and Dave is nothing but efficient in providing enough friction to rub it raw. He grips your thighs for stability alone, his nails cutting crescents into your tender skin, and you moan all the louder, your own hands pulling and tugging until his mouth finds more porcelain to bruise with all the colours of twilight.

“I love you,” Dave spits angrily in your ear, leaving a new mark on your shoulder when you clench around him. He is disgusted, as he should be. Ashamed, more than likely. You carefully wrap your arms around him, one hand petting his hair as the other reaches down to encourage his hips. The touch is sweet, like your mothers, but that makes it all the worse. You revel in it.

“Oh, brother of mine,” you croon, feeling him pulse even as his bites grow more feral and furious. “I want you. I need you-”

He shuts you up with his mouth, your blood on his tongue, and you taste it with a cry of sheer delight. You are a monster, as is he. At least you can be monsters together.

When Dave comes, it is without warning, or grace, his hips jerking out of whatever rhythm he had found and leaving his mark indelibly over your insides. He does not wait for you to finish with him. The notion is romantic, but ridiculous. After he drags himself off you and falls heavily back onto his bucket, you rub yourself to completion, and shudder under his misty gaze.

Then your hand falls away, and you fall quiet. You pant in the gloom, and he puts a hand to his chest, catching his own breath.

“Well-” You begin it hopefully, but he shakes his head, and the words are lost to the awkward quiet that smothers you both. Memories return, feeling like they are from a lifetime ago.

Kanaya is likely looking for you, by now.

Dave stands and does up his pants, fumbling with the button but turning away from your attempt to help him. You curl your fingers into your palm instead, brushing your hair back and ignoring the sting of the chemicals in your hair as they finally settle upon your scalp, a reminder of how recently all of this began. It will not be ending soon, you imagine, from the way that Dave looks at you, full of guilt and antipathy and undeniable lust.

“You should clean up.” He looks away. “You look like you got fucked.”

“My goodness. How ridiculous.” You stand and ignore how your underwear is still pulled wrong, smoothing down your dress. “I suppose I do look like I was taken roughly in a closet then abandoned like a whore. What a scandal.”

He grabs your arm roughly and pulls you close to him, staring at you with anger that he cannot sustain. It breaks, softens unbearably, and then he is kissing you as though he has been dying of thirst and you are the sweetest water he has ever tasted. Dimly, you wonder if your arm will bruise as well.

“Ain’t gonna abandon you,” Dave mutters, letting go of you. You catch his hand in yours instead, tangling your fingers together in a way far too intimate for what just transpired. “This just- It ain’t right, Rose. You know that.”

“When have we ever done anything because it was _right_ , Dave?” You admonish him curtly, and he snorts, though his lips twitch in a way that floods you with relief. “I believe we have long passed the point of no return, and I, for one…”

You gather yourself up, looking at him as you test the words that are sitting uneasily on your tongue.

“I love you too.”

Happiness, relief and utter disappointment mix in his face, but he pulls you close, rubbing his hand up and down your spine like your father used to whenever you were upset. The thought sits oddly, and you shoo it quickly away. One twisted revelation is enough for tonight.

“I’m going to ruin you,” Dave repeats, soft and cracking with tears you know he is right to shed. You simply sigh, and hold him all the tighter.

“No,” you murmur, “We’re going to ruin everything together.”


End file.
